


The Sherlock Babysitter's Club

by TheSeaberry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea makes an appearance, Gen, Humor, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Romance, Tea Parties, mrs. hudson is a crazy mystrade shipper, mystrade, secret meetings, so does Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaberry/pseuds/TheSeaberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow the trials and tribulations of the team behind the Sherlock Babysitter's Club: John, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Join them as they endeavour to keep Sherlock alive and entertained, and don't forget to bask in Mrs. Hudson's shameless shipping of Mystrade on your way out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mrs. Hudson was a very patient woman. Saint-like, perhaps, but she always fancied her head ill suited for a halo. She had always prided herself on her tolerant nature. Until one Sherlock Holmes moved into the flat upstairs.

At first (in the absolute horror that were the Pre-John days) her efforts to keep the exasperation from creeping across her face were valiant. The man had done her an invaluable favour, after all. When Sherlock stomped up the stairs one day dragging a shop mannequin and a wheezing accordion behind him, she wordlessly buffed out the scratches from the wooden steps. Then, there was the time he inexplicably stole the trolley from the installation in Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station. He spent the night throwing it at the wall. She papered over it the next day with a sophisticated fleur de lys, quite proud of her handiwork. Sherlock spray-painted a garish smiley face onto it a week later. Not even the explosion bothered her much. It was the time she walked in on an acrid cloud of black smoke that changed everything. The tea towels were gloriously ablaze while the smoke detector lay screaming in a hundred pieces by the sink. There was a smoking pan in the refrigerator where the severed head usually was, and the severed head was thrown into the oven where John usually kept his sweaters warm. That was the day she founded the Sherlock Babysitter’s Club. The man had been trying to fry an egg.

The meetings took place on Sunday afternoons between only herself and Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft Holmes became involved after perusing CCTV footage of the flat and demanded his inclusion. Mrs. Hudson told everyone who asked – which was precisely no one – of the undeniable chemistry between the Detective Inspector and the elder Holmes. She had been trying to pair them off ever since. Doctor Watson was the most recent addition, proving to be the most valuable source regarding Sherlock’s whereabouts and potential plans, much to Mycroft’s utter chagrin.

The location of the club changed weekly after Mycroft’s discovery of the whole affair. It was generally agreed that to keep the location constant was completely foolish where Sherlock was concerned. They moved to the flat downstairs, then to Speedy’s Café, and then progressively further and further away from Sherlock’s usual haunts. They found food establishments, romantic retreats, or any place outdoors to be mostly safe; however, Mycroft occasionally took them to the various vacation properties of the Royal Family whenever Sherlock became particularly suspicious. On such occasions, Mrs. Hudson usually spent the entire time squealing.

This week, Sherlock is investigating a case in Dresden, so the group is allowed to be more liberal in their location choice. Mycroft offers his private quarters at the back of the Diogenes. When he opens the door and Lestrade waltzes in with the Undeniable Chemistry not far behind, Mrs. Hudson positively beams from behind her teacup. When John arrives minutes later, she is almost wishes he hadn’t.

The agenda for today is both usual and unique. They begin with the former. Has he eaten? John rolls his eyes and asks if they really think he would let Sherlock starve. (Once, he did, and it ended with Sherlock on an intravenous drip). Has he showered? John says he sprayed him with a can of disinfectant at _least_ twice this week. Slept? Mycroft claims he has somewhat, because he had Anthea install a new camera above his bed. At this, John looks decidedly nervous and Mrs. Hudson wonders if she should start planning another wedding.

Lestrade and John are quick to bring up the incident at the Thames last Tuesday. They were investigating an unusual murder – two floating bodies covered in strange cuts – when one of the bodies began to flail furiously. Lestrade began shouting for the diving crew as Sherlock prepared to dive in himself, keen on obtaining a verbal report in case the man succumbed to his injuries. It took all of John’s military training to restrain him, which, as it turned out, did not speak volumes of his military training at all.

> _“It’s – basic – first – aid,” John ground out, as Sherlock grabbed him round the legs to toss him out of the way. “Never approach a drowning victim in the water, the first thing they’ll do is pull you under,” he huffed, snapping his legs out of Sherlock’s grasp and assuming an offensive stance._
> 
> _“John. This man will obviously be dead in the next thirty seconds. Move. Now.” Sherlock replied jerkily._
> 
> _“The only time you should ever enter is if the victim is unresponsive, really. That’s the safest way, if you can’t throw anything to them,” John rattled off, dodging Sherlock’s attempts to dart past him._
> 
> _“John.”_
> 
> _“Does this man look unresponsive to you, Sherlock? No! He’s a hazard. He’ll drown you in ten seconds flat.”_
> 
> _“Longer. Instinctive drowning response. Activated at least twenty to sixty seconds prior to submersion.”_
> 
> _“He’s flailing like a madman, Sherlock!”_
> 
> _Sherlock immediately stopped circling John, and an idea flashed behind his eyes. His delighted glance over John’s left shoulder informed John quite blatantly that he had lost this rendezvous. In one smooth movement, Sherlock dipped under John’s outstretched arm, nabbed an aluminium diving cylinder, spun around, and chucked it at the struggling victim. Lestrade swore violently under his breath and John’s jaw worked soundlessly in horror._
> 
> _“Right. He’ll be unresponsive for three minutes and fifteen seconds. I’m going in.”_

“Four cholera outbreaks in the mid-nineteenth century and all he gets is a cold,” Mycroft sighs, in reference to the Thames’ indisputably disgusting nature.

John splutters. “All he got?” He has been dealing with a sick Sherlock all week. A sick Sherlock means a Sherlock who whines incessantly about everything, who sleeps in five-minute intervals, who tells John that his hair rustles too loudly when he walks. It also means a whole lot of other things that John is not about to mull over given the present company. 

“You’re doing a good job dealing with him, though,” Lestrade muses, raking a hand through his cropped, silver hair. “He was borderline agreeable when he came by the Yard a few days ago to review some files.”

As John thanks Lestrade and the two discuss the new pint selection at the pub down the road, Mrs. Hudson notices the way Mycroft’s eyes linger on Lestrade’s newly-ruffled locks, and smiles to herself. Magnolias, she decides. Only a flower meaning dignity would suit the wedding of a Holmes. Perhaps offset with some lovely Queen Anne’s Lace. Patriotism, and all that. A question in her direction shakes her out of selecting the colour scheme.

She blushes. “Hmm?”

“We were just asking how last night went,” says John. He has had a long shift at the surgery and has been away from the flat for an entire day.

“Oh. Sherlock. A dear when he’s ill, isn’t he? Just precious. I brought him some tea at half past eight and he’d fallen asleep right in his chair! There was absolutely no moving him, goodness I tried! So I covered him up with that blue throw – you know the one that looks so lovely with his hair – and let him be.”

The three men are looking at her incredulously, wondering whether she has checked out of the previous conversation entirely (she had) and how the words “dear” and “precious” could possibly be used to describe Sherlock (they couldn’t).

“I mean, he was certainly irritable when I popped in at ten” she corrects hastily. “Prowling about, asking why people are _always_ putting blankets on him.”

Mycroft turns to John. “Does he seem generally restored to good health, Doctor Watson?”

“You could text him to find out,” John replies, spouting off a repeated refrain. He knows the man will never listen, and is rewarded with an infuriating smile for his efforts. “But yes. He’ll be back stalking around like a bat out of hell in no time.”

The room laughs softly, pausing to sip their tea and contemplate what else they would do with their free time if they did not have to look after a 33 year-old who somehow possessed the energy of a Jack Russell terrier and the boredom of an apathetic sloth.

Lestrade is the first to speak again. “So, uh, I’ve started a ‘Sherlock Drawer’ at the office. Dunno if that’s a stupid idea or anything, but thought I’d have a stock of cases on hand in case he ever gets too bored and starts shooting up the wall again,” he says somewhat sheepishly, looking mostly at Mrs. Hudson.

“Isn't that a sweet idea! I absolutely refuse to patch that up one more time. Half my budget for repairs has gone straight into that wall. Agatha from down the street thinks it may crumble at any moment!” Mrs. Hudson smiles, reassuringly.

Mycroft surveys Lestrade. “Most excellent, Detective Inspector. I consider an antsy Sherlock a grave threat to Britain’s national security” He emits a laugh that sounds both confident and nervous at the same time.

If he wasn’t trying to maintain a neutral smile, Lestrade would have glanced at John over Mycroft’s categorical refusal to call either man by their actual name.

“So what is Sherlock up to this week? Should I be on high alert for any strange noises?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

“I’m bringing a suspect in a new case round by the flat on Wednesday. Bit of a stubborn fella, probably won’t mix well with him at all. I’d say being on high alert is very wise, Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade replies.

“And I’m having Stamford over on Friday,” says John. “Though Sherlock finds him tedious. Someone might want to text him something particularly interesting so he doesn't go off on any rude tangents.” Even though he’s half-joking, John pointedly glares at Mycroft, who scowls ever so slightly in return.

“Always nice to know these things in advance, dears. Is that all? Shall we wrap up early, then?” Mrs. Hudson inquires. She’s been doing Mycroft and Lestrade’s colours in her head for the past few minutes and is certain she’s found several that are quite compatible.

The room echoes in agreement, eliciting soft sounds of limbs being stretched and cups being returned to saucers. John and Mrs. Hudson prepare to return to the flat as Lestrade shrugs into his coat by the umbrella stand. He nods farewell to Mrs. Hudson, tells John he’ll see him at the pub next week, and then walks purposefully to Mycroft’s desk. The man himself is sorting out some files, no doubt waiting for a sleek, black car to pull up outside. He puts out his hand.

“Er, thanks for hosting. Cool place,” Lestrade says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mycroft turns around, quirking an eyebrow in surprise. “The pleasure was all mine, Detective Inspector.”

On the inside, Mrs. Hudson is screaming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock gets a cat, John needs to improve his fitness, Lestrade and Mycroft have a moment, and Mrs. Hudson nearly goes into heart failure.

Lestrade is a little lost. His cousin is travelling in Asia and he’s been house-sitting on the weekend. The gang has started a little competition of sorts which he has tentatively titled ‘Who Can Find The Most Obscure Place to Host’, so he’s chosen this. The issue at hand is the combined fact that Lestrade doesn’t drink tea and that he has no idea how to prepare anything even remotely edible. As he’s puttering about the kitchen peering into cupboards that are not his, he hears a sharp rap on the front door. He straightens up immediately and curses when his head hits the open cupboard door above him. The curses follow him all the way into the front hall where he begrudgingly opens the front door to a slightly amused Anthea. At least, Lestrade _thinks_ she looks amused, but she always looks so dreadfully nonplussed it’s difficult to tell.

She brushes past him wordlessly, navigating the hall as though she’s been here countless times. She sets two paper bags and a box on the counter, and slinks by him again like some sort of pompous cat.

Lestrade blinks. “Er, thanks..” he manages to get out, right as Anthea closes the door behind her and drives off down the street. He supposes she’s off to deliver the latest issue of _Corgi and Country_ to the Queen or to covertly spy on the Prime Minister’s cabinet meeting. The box contains a tea set that looks to be worth Lestrade’s entire flat, but the bags yield a rather delectable selection of little cakes and sandwiches perfect for a tea of Holmesian proportions. He shakes his head.

 

 

***

John is running late.

Three seconds before he was out the door (Mrs. Hudson leaves anywhere from five to twenty minutes before John to avoid rousing suspicion) Sherlock texts him claiming he needs a quart of milk and a ball of handspun woollen yarn or else the lives of innocent people will be at stake. Luckily, John knows Mrs. Hudson has a ready supply of both, grabs (read: steals) the items from her flat, and takes the stairs up to 221B two at a time to avoid further delay. He expects Sherlock will be testing the decomposition of the fibers in various substances, but what he doesn’t expect is to see him chasing a kitten through table legs and around armchairs.

John doesn’t think he’s ever looked so perplexed. “Uh- what...Sherlock?”

“Slow day. Testing stereotypes,” says Sherlock, lying on the ground and scanning the underside of the sofa.

“Stereotypes?”

Sherlock ignores him for a moment, contemplating the cat beneath the sofa, before emitting an exasperated sigh and straightening up. “Have you ever _really_ seen a cat play with a ball of yarn? Life’s not all picture book illustrations, John. There are some matters that simply beg for the truth.”

John looks at him incredulously. “You-“ he starts. And then stops. And then starts again. “ _Handspun woollen yarn_? Why’d you need it to be _handspun_?!”

“The manufacturing process is one variable, obviously. Commercial versus handspun. And then there’s the spinning technology. Woollen? Worsted? So many options, so little time.” He’s extricated the kitten by the scruff of its neck and is regarding it with childlike delight.

“Just. Don’t let it be dead by the time I come back. I mean it, Sherlock. Don’t.” John races out the door, shouting behind him that he’s meant to visit Sarah at half past and now he’ll be _so_ late, taking the street at a slow jog in the hopes that he’ll catch up with Mrs. Hudson by the time she reaches the tube.

 

 

***

Lestrade has laid out the sandwiches and the tea things on fancy plates that his knows are much too far out of his league. He’s trying to work out how many tea bags go in the teapot, how long it’s supposed to steep, when he hears a soft tap on the front door. He startles, but collects himself long enough to check if there are any rogue cupboard doors above him this time.

He sees the outline of the taller Holmes through the mottled glass and gives himself the once over in the hallway mirror before opening the door.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says, accompanied by one of his unreadable smiles.

“Overseer of the British Government and Also Probably Spy!” Lestrade counters, grinning. “Hey, two can play at this game, eh?”

Mycroft’s smile becomes a little more genuine. “How has the afternoon been treating you?”

“Fine, thanks. Made better by your, uh, help..earlier,” Lestrade replies, referring to Anthea’s saving of the entire day. “Thank you, by the way. Come in.” He explains that it is his cousin’s place before showing Mycroft into the sitting room. Mycroft’s lip quirks at the tea arrangement on the coffee table, but he says nothing.

 

 

***

Mrs. Hudson is quite out of breath by the time she and John reach the long, winding curve of Hazelton Road, which is what is written on the thin piece of paper held in her hand. They’ve been speedwalking to assuage their delay (Mycroft only has so much free time), and no, it would not be too forward to say that the image of John speedwalking would be most amusing. He looks rather like a hedgehog on a mission to save the world when he does. Sherlock is a bit fond of it.

“I’m..always...telling..Margaret..that I need...to work...on...my cardio,” she finishes breathlessly.  She doesn’t need to quite as much as John, who quickens his pace to keep up. It looks like the mission the hedgehog is on has become far graver.

John’s mobile dings as they approach the house and he looks down. Text.

_I’ve named her Lady Catelyn – SH_

John replies quickly.

_From Game of Thrones? Punny, Sherlock. – JW_

_Puns are dull. She has the loyalty of a Tully but the temper of a Stark. – SH_

_Clever. Going now, tea with Sarah at quarter to. – JW_

_Charming. – SH_

_P.S. Lady Catelyn has just relieved herself all over your jumpers. – SH_

John does not think he possesses the mental wherewithal to respond to that, and steps swiftly through the front door.

***  
Lestrade is brushing a piece of lint off Mycroft’s knee when Mrs. Hudson and John walk in. It started as a bit of a joke, with Lestrade assuring Mycroft that he really needn’t brush off any specks of imaginary lint from his one million-piece suit (his cousin is rather OCD about cleanliness) when a tiny piece of fluff floated down from nowhere and onto the knee of the British government himself. Lestrade only meant to swat it away playfully and say something about not speaking too soon, but it was too late.

John walks into Mrs. Hudson as she freezes in the entrance to the sitting room, eyes wide. Lestrade snatches his hand away while Mycroft stands up immediately. Everyone chooses this moment to clear their throat, except Mrs. Hudson, who is clutching her heart as though Mr. Hudson himself has returned from the grave. John swears he hears her whisper something about magnolias not being in season.

Mycroft waves the two to the sofa he and Lestrade were previously occupying and selects a chair as far away from the Detective Inspector as possible. He is the first to speak.

“Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson. I hope the day has been treating you well. I, myself, have had the most leisurely time strolling through Hyde Park. I could not have wished for a day any clearer than this.” He neglects to mention his three-way meeting with Germany, France, and Spain. And the two assassins that broke into his office at noon.

“Yeah, weather’s been good. Perfect time to take up a new hobby. Like catsitting.” John sighs, then elaborates at the myriad of confused expressions. “Sherlock’s got himself a cat.”

Simultaneously, Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, Lestrade laughs aloud, and Mrs. Hudon asserts that she does not allow pets on the premises, thank you very much.

“In all fairness. Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade grins, “You probably don’t allow half the things that Sherlock gets up to in your flat anyway.”

“No, no, dear, I certainly don’t!” she replies. “Oh John, you’ll make sure he doesn’t kill it, will you? A pet could be good for him.”

“Quite right. We tried when he was younger, but alas, the interest was never there. I have heard he’s named it, however, which we might count as a very good sign indeed,” says Mycroft, looking hopeful. John doesn’t even want to ask how he’s aware of that last piece of information already.

“So, uh, what’s on the table this week, Sherlock-wise?” asks Lestrade, eager to get this over with.

“House pets aside, he hasn’t been too maddening this week. At home, at least,” says John.

Lestrade scoffs. “Lucky you. He’s been a right terror at the station. Anderson went on a weeklong psychological leave after his visit. Had to lock him in my office so he didn’t send any more of my staff running.”

Mycroft and John look apologetic, as though they feel responsible for Sherlock’s petulant nature. “Ah, sorry about that,” John says. “I’ll speak with him about respect. And shutting up.”

“I've also received word  of a family gathering our mother will be hosting in a fortnight. No doubt Sherlock received the same, but has probably since purged the invitation from memory. Mrs. Hudson, you appreciate the importance of family. Perhaps you would like to assist me in convincing him to attend?  Mummy would be so pleased.” Mycroft realizes what he has said a split second too late, and reddens visibly at his calling his mother ‘Mummy’. And in front of the Detective Inspector, no less!

Mrs. Hudson lights up. “Yes, yes, of course. Anything to get Sherlock from lecturing me on how to properly make tea.”

Everyone in the room has experienced it at one point or the other. A kind gesture turned on its head by Sherlock’s complete inability to drink a cup of tea that is even remotely subpar. Or decent. Actually, it must be exceptional in the extreme. By now, Sherlock’s Five Laws for the Perfect Cuppa are well known by the entire gang.

  1. You must use just under a full cup of boiling water (“ _You simpletons are always using  a full cup...what about the tea bag? The milk? Idiotic."_ )
  2. The bag must brew for exactly 2 minutes. ( _"The polyphenol known as tannins will impart a bitter taste if  left any longer."_ )
  3. Upon removal of the bag, the immediate addition of 10 ml of whole, sterilised milk is of utmost importance. (“ _If you dare use skim, you have too many self-esteem issues to be drinking tea in the first place!”_ )
  4. The cup should be left alone for another 4 minutes to achieve optimal drinking temperature of 60˚C. ( _"Pay attention, this is the only time I will ever lecture on the virtue of patience."_ )
  5. One lump of sugar may be added if desired (“ _It should never be desired”_).  



John shoots Mycroft a cheeky look. “He’s stopped sleeping again, though. Don’t know if you can ask Mummy for some lullaby recommendations?”

The blush creeps steadily up Mycroft’s face as he actively avoids Lestrade’s grin. “Valerian root tea. I used to have to force feed it to him as a child when he would get particularly riled up. It tastes dreadful but does the trick.”

The doctor in John is slightly suspicious, though it’s not the first time he’s heard of the miracle plant. “Any adverse effects?”

“Some,” Mycroft replies unconcernedly. “Though I hardly consider mental dullness to be detrimental in this case. I believe it will result in a Sherlock who is tolerable at best.”

John’s interest is piqued at a tolerable, sleepy Sherlock. The thought alone has him itching to run back to Baker Street to try it. “Well, I’m sold!”

“Make sure he’s well-rested then, before he does any more work with us. Donovan wasn’t best pleased with his outburst at Anderson. Wouldn’t be surprised if she handed in her notice the next time he opened his mouth,” Lestrade says.

John and Mrs. Hudson dutifully respond that they will try. The group discusses ways of getting Sherlock to leave the flat more often (they’ve devised an experiment for John to plant in his head about whether cats can be walked or not) and the meeting comes to a close. Mrs. Hudson pulls John up by the elbow rather forcefully and hurries him out the front door, desperate to leave Mycroft and Lestrade alone again.

The last thing she hears before closing the door behind her is Mycroft insisting that he give Lestrade a ride back to his flat, and she glances at the imposing black car parked further down the street. The news adds a little spring to her step that has her speeding down the road, John huffing and puffing behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock gets suspicious, everyone gets nervous, and Mystrade get together.

To say Sherlock was suspicious would be an understatement of Mycroftian proportions. Suspicion was Sherlock’s default personality. He lived it, he breathed it, and if he ever ate anything, he would eat it, too. The first meeting of the Sherlock Babysitter’s Club occurred precisely seven months, five days, and twenty-two hours ago, and it has been exactly that long since Sherlock’s misgivings were first stirred. Which then sprouted into inklings, branched into theories, and blossomed into experiments. The tree of doubt had been planted, and all parties involved were bound to feel the wrath of the fruits it bore if Sherlock had his way. He always wanted to throw an orange at Mycroft’s head, anyway.

So, John has been keeping secrets from him. When he had plans with Sarah several weeks ago, he first told Sherlock he was meeting her at half past four, but later said quarter to. Knowing John’s dislike of plans changed last minute and his stress on punctuality, Sherlock finds it likely that he’s caught him in a lie. Only days later, the good doctor forced that despicable Valerian tea on him, information only Mycroft would be privy to. Furthermore, there was the fact that John and Mrs. Hudson had an overlapping period of time in which they were away every Sunday afternoon (and that somehow, John always seemed to know Mrs. Hudson’s gossip before Sherlock did). It doesn’t take an Anderson to figure out that that besides a proclivity for white chocolate, he is the only common denominator between the three. He decides to seek out Lestrade for more information.

***

It’s a Friday afternoon and Lestrade has been eyeing the clock for the past hour and a half. He wants absolutely nothing more than to call it a day, nip home, and relax in front of the telly with an ice cold beer. It’s not that the week has been exhausting, because Anderson has been remarkably calm since his psych leave. It’s not because Sherlock has (literally) been on his case for days on end, because he’s been absent from the office all week. As such, Lestrade secretly thinks he should be exempt from this Sunday’s meeting. The real reason is because he’s got a date with one Mycroft Holmes the very next day and suddenly he feels as nervous as his fifteen year-old self going out with a girl for the first time. He’s stress-eating his way through a box of doughnuts when Sherlock unceremoniously kicks the door in and folds his long limbs into the chair in front of his desk. Lestrade squeaks in shock, feet still propped up, his mouth agape and half-full. Sherlock impatiently rolls his eyes and taps his left cheek as Lestrade cues in immediately, hastily brushing off the sprinkles dotting his face. He’s about to clear his throat when a grey tabby cat leaps onto his desk and emits a terrifying hiss that oddly sounds like Sherlock when he’s frustrated. He starts choking on his half-chewed bite.

“Oh, for God’s sake, pull yourself together, Lestrade. This is Lady Catelyn,” he says by way of introduction. He then addresses the cat. “This is Lestrade. He hasn’t got a first name.”

By now Lestrade has somewhat composed himself, although he wants to scream “GREG!! MY NAME IS BLOODY GREG!!” while throttling Sherlock viciously. He stands up to glare at him properly. “How did you even get in here?” he questions, eyeing the other man’s Belstaff coat. He’s been known to carry all manner of objects concealed in its folds (probably how he got the cat in, actually), and he’s never gone through security without having it confiscated.

Sherlock ignores the question and chooses instead to pointedly stare at him. “You are a man of the law, are you not?”

Lestrade is already uncomfortable with the question. He nods slowly.

“And so,” Sherlock continues, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, “telling the truth is a principle to which you generally abide?”

“Er... yes,” Lestrade replies, treading carefully.

Sherlock stands up, hands still pressed together, and paces the room in long strides swallowed by a small room. Lestrade tracks him with his eyes as he walks back and forth. Sherlock is silent for quite some time, and the Detective Inspector is about to ask him why he’s come and could he please leave, when the other man whips around and fixes him with a steely glare.

“Hm. Unexpected. You’re a part of it, too,” he says mysteriously.

“It? A part of what? Look, Sherlock. Could you just leave, I’ve a lot of paperwork to finish up before the weekend.” Lestrade lets out a long, frustrated breath and glances wearily at the spot on his desk where a thick stack of papers used to be sitting. Apparently the cat’s pushed them to the floor and is having a grand time sinking her claws into each and every sheet.

If there ever was a proverbial last straw, this was it. Lestrade fairly throws the animal back at Sherlock and uses all the authority he can muster to march him out the door. He tells Sherlock it’s because he’s busy, because he’s been stretched a bit thin, because that paperwork will take him the remaining hour to reorganize and repair. All are true of course, Lestrade being a man of the law and so on. But what he doesn’t let on is the fear of discovery. _Oh shit_ , he thinks. _He knows_.

***

Instead of meeting for coffee (Lestrade’s idea) and then checking out the latest exhibit at the Tate Modern (Mycroft’s), Lestrade is sat on the latter’s sofa, watching the man himself pace pensively around the room. He wishes the Holmes brothers did not have to be so bloody dramatic when trying to reason something out, all pacing and sighing and narrowed eyes.

“I’m quite sorry to have delayed...today,” Mycroft says, looking genuinely apologetic. “But you think Sherlock suspects something?”

Lestrade is sure this is about some petty competition between the two men – Sherlock bent on catching Mycroft in the ruse, Mycroft determined not to let him. “Well, yeah. He threatened me to tell the truth and then before asking any questions, he had obviously figured everything out. Seemed surprised that I was involved too – no idea how he worked that out though.”

Mycroft looks chagrined. “I can’t believe he implicated me before you!” he says, almost petulantly. “It is rather worrisome to know that your brother – no matter how brilliant he may be – can figure out what you’ve been up to behind his back when you’ve made a professional career out of keeping secrets. Am I truly so careless?”

“Careless? You?” Lestrade has to laugh. “Never,” he says so confidently that Mycroft has no choice but to smile. “Anyway, it’s Sherlock you’re dealing with. He’s a complete anomaly, probably quicker than half of the government officials you’re fraternising with.”

“Ah, you are quite correct in that assumption, Det – Gregory.” Mycroft looks grieved at his slip-up, but quickly recovers. “So. There’s no need for us to limit our conversations to subjects only concerning Sherlock. You’re the coffee expert – where would you like to go?”

In the end, they wind up staying in Mycroft’s flat because it turns out Mycroft keeps an international assortment of expensive coffees in his kitchen for foreign visitors, though he has no idea how to brew it. Now it’s Lestrade’s turn to be the expert, adding the correct ratios of ground coffee and water to the French press, allowing it to brew, and depressing the plunger exactly when his nose tells him that the body and flavour are the fullest.

When Mycroft holds out his umbrella for Lestrade to duck under as they walk to one of the cars waiting outside, Lestrade looks at Mycroft and grins. “If only Mrs. Hudson could see us now!”

***

The woman in question is currently in a bit of a predicament.

“I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve, John! He just asked me to come meet him here at three tomorrow! I told him I was invited round to Agatha’s to meet her grandson, and that he’s only visiting for such a short time so I had to go, but of course he saw right through that. Said it was extremely obvious from the way Agatha walks that she’s never had any children or something like that. John, what’s he even doing looking at the way she walks?!” says Mrs. Hudson, evidently distressed.

So is John, really. Not only has Sherlock insisted on meeting Mrs. Hudson at the same time as the meeting tomorrow, he’s apparently got a thing for old lady arse.

“Anyway,” she continues, “what are we going to do about the meeting? He’s painted me into a little corner, that Sherlock. Can someone host instead? Perhaps it can go on without me.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you know most things fall apart without you. Clearly he knows something’s up, though. He likes to keep the rest of us on our toes when it comes to his schemes, but never you. And he wants to meet you exactly when it starts. Why don’t you go see what he’s on about tomorrow, and the rest of us can meet at Molly’s place instead.”

John doesn’t particularly want to face Molly’s wrath at being kept out of the loop – he has a feeling her sweet facade is deceiving. He will probably have to phrase it as a first-time event, or try to get Mycroft to arrange for a body to be sent to the morgue at the time of the meeting so the group can commandeer her flat without her actually being there. John feels a little guilty about this, but remembers it is in everyone’s best interests. As lovely as Molly was, and as hard as she tried, she simply was not involved enough in Sherlock’s life to warrant inclusion.

***

Sunday afternoon blooms soft and warm, one of those rare days where the temperature is the same as you are and it almost feels like you are floating when you walk. The sun is high and jubilant, the sky brilliant and blue, and the clouds – well, John can wax poetic all day, but the others are about to arrive and he supposes he should head down to the venue and make it more inviting. It turned out that Molly was down with hay fever for the weekend and John wasn’t about to make her more miserable by asking her if a secret club about the man who spurned her countless advances could be held at her abode. He had had a night shift at the surgery when the idea came to him – the morgue. It would surely win the obscure location competition, Sherlock was not working on any cases involving dead bodies, and best of all, he wouldn’t even have to leave St. Bart’s. It wasn’t that strange anyway, as all  men in attendance had dealt with death frequently given their lines of work. Mycroft and Lestrade responded within seconds of one another that although odd, it would do, and all was settled.

John notices the two men milling about the morgue entrance and flattens his hair while pulling his jumper from askew to semi-straight in an attempt to look a little more awake.

“Sorry I’m late,” he calls from down the hall. “S’been a long night.”

Mycroft and Lestrade jump apart a little. “Nonsense,” says Mycroft. “We are the ones who are early.”

John smiles and nods hello to both men as he unlocks the morgue door with a key he swiped from Molly’s flat. He steps inside the unflinchingly cold room, pleased to see there are no cadavers split open on any of the steel tables. There’s just one covered in a sheet on a table against the far wall that John hopes no one’s forgotten to put back for the weekend. He pulls several metal stools into the center of the room and vaguely gestures toward them.

An awkward silence hangs over the group as everyone adjusts to the extreme ludicrousness of the situation. John opens his mouth, a half-second from bringing the meeting to court, when it happens. The steel table against the wall creaks. Everyone whips around to look. And Sherlock springs up from the beneath the sheet, eyes wild with the thrill of it all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone is slapped in the face by a deduction.

The three men are staring incredulously at a heavily-breathing Sherlock, who looks not only thrilled, but also as though he has been holding his breath for quite some time. John is proud of himself for being able to tamp down on the shriek of surprise that almost escaped his lips when Sherlock revealed himself. Lestrade jumps slightly, but Mycroft simply sighs in defeat. Before anyone can utter a word, however, Mrs. Hudson comes barreling through the morgue door.

She doesn’t even register Sherlock’s presence. “The lunatic has set me up!” she cries, more worked up than John has ever seen her. “I sat in your bloody sitting room for half an hour before I realized he wasn’t even going to come!”

Apparently, Sundays are very precious to Mrs. Hudson. “And now we’ve got to have the meeting in a morgue! A MORGUE!!”. She seems positively infuriated, muttering about how this is possibly the most uncouth thing she has ever done.

Then she sees Sherlock. Looking vaguely miffed that his moment of glory has been  compromised. Feeling slightly embarrassed that he’s an adult lying on a steel gurney, half-covered by a white sheet. And realizing that Mrs. Hudson is the only human on the planet that has the power to knock him down a few pegs.

Before Mrs. Hudson can open her mouth, John deems it wise to change the subject. He stands between the two.

“Right, Sherlock. You’re dying to tell us, aren’t you? Go ahead. How did you figure this out?” He gestures to the people in the room.

“But take off that God forsaken sheet, first,” Mycroft says, through gritted teeth. He does not want to think about how many expired bodies it has touched. Nor Sherlock’s propensity for draping himself with sheets in inappropriate public situations.

Sherlock pointedly ignores Mycroft, but shakes off his recumbent pose to take centre stage, purposefully tugging the sheet round his shoulders as he does so. He looks like a child playing dress-up, or perhaps a poor man’s version of a matador.

“For starters, all of you are rather lazy and sloppy at keeping a secret. But let’s move on to something you don’t know. Let’s start with you, John. One of the easiest to figure out of the lot.” John rolls his eyes. “Always missing on Sunday afternoons. I live with you, John. I’m not sure why you thought I wouldn’t notice. You started by mixing up your timings for your false get-together with that doctor woman last month. And your giving me that Valerian tea implied you scheming with Mycroft almost immediately. Really, brother dear, it’s a good thing your livelihood doesn’t depend on your ability to keep information private.”

Mycroft gives John a cool look that says _you really should have been more subtle about the damned_ _tea_ and John shoots one back that plainly says _sod off_.

Sherlock turns to face Mrs. Hudson.  “You, on the other hand, were often missing with John on Sundays. Though, it was quite clear were trying to mislead me by staggering your departure times – a charming effort. But it wasn’t until a grave mistake on your part, Mrs. Hudson, that brought Lestrade into the fold. This.” He says, holding up a small piece of paper bearing a rushed scribble.

Mrs. Hudson looks mortified as she breathes a soft _oh_.

“Arthur Lestrade,” he reads aloud. “Thirty-four Hazelton Road. Your handwriting is easy to discern, Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade has no male siblings, and you can tell by the way he shaves that his father died several years ago – a cousin, perhaps?” Lestrade can only nod dumbly.

“So, why would my landlady be visiting a relative of Lestrade’s? Well, based on a conversation I had with the man in question earlier, things started to pull together.”

Sherlock whips around to Lestrade now, holding his arms out in front of him and drawing his palms together, pointing his fingers like a gun to the Detective Inspector.

“I came to visit you at your office with the intent to find out what you knew of this triangle. I asked you a question of honesty. You exuded trepidation. Your body language – lack of gesture, arms held close to your body, the repeated scratching of the back of your head – easily told me you were keeping something from me. And my _God_ , Lestrade, do try to keep your perspiration under control.” It is now Lestrade’s turn to look mortified.

“You obviously knew everything, being friends with this one,” he points his finger-gun at John, “and lovers with this one,” spinning round to Mycroft. The faces in the room could teach an art class about the merits of the various shades of red.

“After I found Mrs. Hudson’s note, it was evident that you not only knew, you were involved. And that you were trying to find unusual places to gather in secret. The final confirmation of my suspicions came in the form of this,” Sherlock continues, producing a crumpled napkin from his pocket. “A napkin bearing the signature monogram of the Diogenes, found in your coat pocket. I must thank my cat for allowing me access to your things.” Lestrade groans when he realizes the cat pawing through his paperwork was likely a perfectly-timed distraction.

“Weeks previously, I found an identical napkin at the bottom of the stairs of the flat, with Mrs. Hudson’s exact shade of lipstick pressed upon it. That was around the time I noticed John smelling strangely like the tainted Mignonette flowers of the Diogenes’ potpourri. And that’s what implicated the four of you at once.”

The other occupants of the room look like Sherlock has drugged them with a healthy dose of hindsight bias, each wondering how they could have been so stupid in retrospect. They mull over his deduction for a few moments, feet tapping against the floor, fingertips drumming against thighs. Mycroft fingers his lapel nervously. Mrs. Hudson is twisting the ring round her thumb when she suddenly looks up, eyes darting from Lestrade to Mycroft and back again. _Lovers?_ She mouths to Sherlock, who answers her question with raised brows and a look that says _I’m just as surprised as you are_. Somehow, Mrs. Hudson doubts that.

She is picturing darling brown-eyed, brunette children when Mycroft glances at her as though he knows exactly what she’s thinking, keen on stopping her in her family-planning tracks. He clears his throat. “You have yet to explain how you came to find us here today.”

Sherlock steps into the ring again. “Easy. Molly. After speaking with Lestrade, I thought there might be a chance she was involved too.”

“Well, I certainly hope you were tactful! Can you imagine? _Hello, Molly, I hear there’s a secret club going on about me, were you invited?_ ” John interjects.

“ _Yes_ , John.” Sherlock says tediously. “Of course I was tactful. I only asked her if she knew _where_ the meetings for the secret club about me were being held, not whether she was invited!”

John exhales slowly. He’s going to have to do some serious damage control later.

“Regardless, she said no, but mentioned you asked about her availabilities this weekend. Whether she was planning on staying in. So, I assumed you were going to use her flat. However, due to her allergic rhinitis, you must have had to go with something else. I knew you had a shift at the hospital all night, and because you worship the holy deity that is the clock and espouse all things punctual, you would want somewhere close. I had removed Mrs. Hudson from the equation by occupying her in the flat, so you could choose somewhere more risqué. Didn’t have to do much work after that, though. A quick hack into my esteemed brother’s security cameras – namely, the one sewn into his lapel – showed you were headed into the hospital, but I lost the connection when you entered. Ah, but it gets much more exciting! You turned round before exiting the car, revealing Lestrade in the backseat. _Lestrade!_ ” Sherlock looks completely delighted with himself, grinning at the man devilishly.

“You gave up the game when you muttered something about dead bodies being a right mood killer. I had been sitting in the café right across the street, so all I had to do was call off the search party my homeless network was on to keep an eye out for you all. Then I broke into the back entrance of the morgue for the hearses et voilà!”

Lestrade looks wholly humiliated, but Mycroft manages to remain straight-faced. If Sherlock had been looking through that camera on their way to the hospital, there were certainly a lot more things he had seen that he was letting on. Mycroft is both grateful and wary – if Sherlock is keeping mum on a veritable list of embarrassing content, that cannot possibly mean anything good. He feels utterly blessed that he did not take Lestrade up on his suggestion for a morning quickie. In the car. With Anthea in the front seat. Not that he would have done something so crass, mind you, but nothing stopped him from activating the barrier between the front and back of the car and letting Lestrade pay a little attention to his mouth. He was mostly worried about Lestrade’s reaction to the camera, however. He hadn’t yet told him just how extensive his surveillance network was.

By virtue of his friendship with Lestrade, the news hasn’t completely shocked John, but he knows he’s going to have to give Sherlock a dressing down later about revealing people’s love lives in public. Perhaps while giving him a dressing down of another kind.

“So,” says Sherlock, ripping the sheet off his shoulders. “Is anyone going to tell me what these secret meetings are all about?”

Everyone looks at one another. In their extensive contingency plan, they had not foreseen Sherlock barging into one of their meetings demanding to know what was going on. In fact, they all thought that should he catch on, he likely would have figured out why they were meeting in the first place.

“Well? Anyone?”

“Er, White Chocolate Lover’s Anonymous?” John offers.

“Can’t be. Lestrade hates the stuff.”

“The Tea Appreciation Club?” suggests Mrs. Hudson

“And not invite me? The only person here who knows the properties of all the tea leaves in both hemispheres? No.”

“The How to be a Decent Person and Not Reveal Others’ Private Information League?” Lestrade contributes.

Sherlock just scoffs in response.

“The Necrophobia Support Network?” John says, laughing given their surroundings.

“Oh! Oh! I know!” giggles Mrs. Hudson. “The Detective Novel Book Club!”

“How to Deceive a Maniac and Lie Trying 101?” says Lestrade, grinning.

“Or, how about Taking Care of Your Pet Consulting Detective: A Beginner’s Guide?” suggests Mycroft. “It’s certainly the closest to the truth.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow in the amusing way they do when he hasn’t quite connected the dots. “What do you mean?” he says, irritated that he even has to ask.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft replies. “Welcome to the Sherlock Babysitter’s Club.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the wait was a bit longer with this one!! I think we'll be wrapping things up in next week's chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no one gets to finish what they are reading, Sherlock smartens up, and someone crosses something very important off a very important list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry for extremely long gap between chapters! Things have been busy. Hope you enjoy :)

It has been three weeks since the fiasco in the morgue and John sincerely hopes the dust will settle soon. Sherlock came home after the nature of the meetings had been revealed and promptly sawed the kitchen table in half out of pure anger. The dust truly was monstrous. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the man had also thrown John’s box of Cluedo at the wall.

 John kicks the severed remains of Professor Plum’s playing piece down the hall and swears as he steps on a miniature candlestick. Bringing the game into the flat had been an obvious mistake, in hindsight, but John was done being apologetic. He forgave Sherlock’s petulant nature most of the time; the man was 95% genius and 5% complete idiot after all, so he had no idea when he was being a git. However, when he actually analysed the situation, the fact that Sherlock was so upset over John’s attempt to secure his _own well-being_ made John rather exasperated indeed. He’d only had Sherlock’s best intentions at heart. They all had. It was time for the consulting detective to grow up.

John stalks purposefully into the sitting room, throwing an icy glare to Lady Catelyn on his way in to establish exactly who will be taking control of the situation. She hisses at him in response. Sherlock is sitting in an armchair reading a book titled _“Mole Catching: A Practical Guide”_. His feet are propped up on a stack of equally oddly-named tomes – _“All About Scabs”, “The Invention of Curried Sausage”,_ and _“Grandma’s Dead: Breaking Bad News with Baby Animals”_ among them. John is beyond being curious by now, but knows a good conversation-starter when he sees one.

“Have you got a mole problem, then?” he starts.

Sherlock’s brow knits together softly in the way it does when he’s heavily invested in something, but is vaguely aware his attention is being called elsewhere. He decides to keep reading.

“Alright. Not a mole problem. I could probably tell you more about scabs than any book. And you despise curried sausage because you don’t believe food should be colonised, whatever the hell that means. That last one, though, probably a useful read for you.” John says, nodding at _“Grandma’s Dead_ ”. “Is that the real reason you got Lady Catelyn? Because I’d really like to know who died, Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock responds, realizing that the steady background buzz he thought was the fridge humming was actually John attempting to engage him in conversation.

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “We should probably talk.”

“About what?”

“About _this_ ,” says John, gesturing to the mess in the flat. “About everything.”

Sherlock puts the book down and surveys him over steepled hands. “Proceed.”

“I know you have some weird hero complex or something.” (At this, Sherlock scoffs that he’s not a bloody existential sixteen-year old wizard.) “But hear me out. You can’t do this saving lives thing without a little help. You’re prone to boredom and personal safety is definitely not a priority for you. You do what it takes to get the job done. You do what it takes to feel the thrill. We started those meetings because frankly, you’re absolutely shit at surviving. And unlike you, we care about the mental and physical well-being of others.” Before Sherlock can interject, John continues. “Yes. Even your brother. Did you know how much of a goddamn thorn in his side you are? He’s always concerned about you and you’re certainly not easy to help. Just do us all a favour. Shut up, stop acting like a child, and let us do our thing behind the scenes. And let him know you’re appreciative every now and then.”

Sherlock looks a bit like he’s been slapped.

“Fine. Once a year.”

“Once a _month_.”

“Every second half-moon.”

“Done,” says John smugly, as though he’s worked out a brilliant deal. As long as John believes differently, Sherlock isn’t about to tell him that once a month and every second half-moon mean exactly same thing.

 

***

  
Mrs. Hudson is doing a little Sunday afternoon shopping with her newfound free time. The meetings have been suspended until they are deemed necessary again, and while she misses the social interaction, she cannot deny that she does not mind the new gap in her schedule. She is at a fruit stand making the imperative decision between the fragrant sweetness of the Pink Lady or the soft tanginess of the McIntosh when the scent of Undeniable Chemistry overrides her senses. She ducks behind a row of pineapples and peeks between the leaves.

Lestrade is wearing black jeans, a white t-shirt, and aviator sunglasses, while bespoke-as-always Mycroft has opted for dark trousers and a light blue button-down. His sleeves are slightly rolled up, a fact Mrs. Hudson nearly finds scandalous. Mycroft is inspecting the underside of a teapot at an antique stall while Lestrade is nearby chatting animatedly with the owner of a bread shop. 

Mycroft walks up to Lestrade, looking a bit displeased. “Thought I stumbled upon an exceedingly vintage Royal Doulton piece. But alas – nothing but a clever duplicate.”

Lestrade just grins. “Nothing gets past a Holmes,” he says, squeezing Mycroft’s upper arm gently before guiding him across the street to look at the fruit.

Mrs. Hudson yelps in alarm when she realizes the two men are headed straight for her. She pops out from behind the pineapples and pretends she is weighing two apples as the men approach.

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson!” Mycroft exclaims. “Enjoying the market, I see.”

“Oh, hello boys! Yes, just thought I’d pop out for some fresh fruit and veg. Think I’ll make a lovely pie. You two should come round for a slice!” Mrs. Hudson hopes she does not sound too eager.

“What would we do without you, Mrs. Hudson. Always taking care of us,” says Lestrade, warmly.

All she can do is giggle a bit nervously, because standing across the street is Anthea Blackberry herself, wearing an expression that clearly says: _I’ve been watching you watching them, just so you’re aware._

She clears her throat. “Well, best be off. Pies don’t bake themselves! I’ll see you at the flat later in the week, then,” she says, in a tone that brooks no argument. She hurries off before Anthea can shoot her another knowing smirk.

 

***

John thinks having everyone over for pie is a very nice idea indeed. Sherlock, however, has a differing opinion.

“Pie? You’re making me invite my brother and his glorified policeman into _my_ home for PIE?” Sherlock looks as though he cannot possibly understand why anyone would like the round, flaky, famously delicious treat.

“It was Mrs. Hudson’s idea, not mine. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. I love a good pie,” replies John.

“Pies are stupid,” is Sherlock’s ill-tempered retort, as a knock sounds from the front door.

John doesn’t rise to open it. He knows Mrs. Hudson will bustle in anyway, which she does the very next second, bearing a rattling tea tray.

“Be a dear and help me set out the tea things. I’ll just be a minute!” her voice trails, as she hurries out of the flat and down the stairs. Mycroft and Lestrade walk up the stairs in her wake.

John looks relieved to see them, even if Mycroft sets him on edge every now and then. The man still finds it perfectly acceptable to kidnap him from time to time, so John has taken to carrying a “contingency toothbrush” on his person. It certainly came in handy the time Mycroft thought Sherlock was going on a bender and had John follow him via CCTV footage all night.

John looks out the window and sees Lestrade’s car parked down the street, and Anthea zipping away in something black and shiny. He grins when he realizes they’re trying to make it look like they have conveniently arrived at the same time, and grins even wider when he sees they gave up on the ruse almost immediately.

“Hi, guys,” he greets. “Mrs. Hudson’ll be up in a minute. I’ll just grab your coats, take a seat.”

Sherlock has made no move to greet either man, still stinging from the knowledge that his brother has been “babysitting” him all this time. John gives him a stern look, as Mrs. Hudson hurries in again, setting the pies on the table and pinning up some of her flyaway hair.

“Oh, hello boys! Just in time. I’ve made two varieties today. That one’s strawberry, the other’s chicken and mushroom. Sweet _and_ savoury!” At this, she looks pointedly at Mycroft and Lestrade, and neither can decide which of them is meant to be Sweet and the other, Savoury.

Sherlock strides into the center of the room and clasps his hands together. “Right. Now that we’ve properly steeped this room with obvious sexual tension, let’s get this on with. I’ve got five experiments in various stages of completion in the kitchen and I _can’t_ be kept –”

“Shut up, Sherlock” John interrupts. “Mycroft’s already told me your favourite food is pie.”

 

 ***

The evening is over and everyone has finally left, much to Sherlock’s extreme pleasure. John had even texted Molly to make an appearance, and at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence, Mycroft had been persuaded to text Anthea in favour of evening out the male to female ratio. He was unaware that Mrs. Hudson simply wanted to convince Anthea that she hadn't spying on her boss back at the market. It did not work. However, they’d all had a lovely time, all things considered. And by all things considered, John means Sherlock’s almost constant glowering. Besides himself, only Molly – flaunting that uncharacteristic boldness of hers – had the nerve to try and engage him in conversation.

He’s lying on the sofa, his stomach content with pie and his head still full of that warm buzz of a good night’s socialising, when Sherlock pads quietly into the room. He puts down his copy of “ _How to Live with an Idiot: Clueless Creatures and the People Who Love Them”_ and surveys the taller man. “You okay?”

Sherlock looks like he’s having some sort of internal battle. “I....”

“You? You what?” John prods.

The internal battle rages on. “I..well..”

“Ah, two words. Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“I just thought...well _society_ dictates I should...not that I actually agree or anything...”

John is silent.

“IsposeIjstwntedtosaysrry.”

“Pardon?”

The internal battle has been lost, tact and maturity emerging victorious at last.

“I suppose, I wanted to say...I’m sorry.”

The buzz John feels has now been flooded with a new kind of warmth. The kind that he gets when there’s that one thing he’s been waiting to hear from that one person for a very long time. John doesn’t care how unsure Sherlock sounds. He doesn’t care that the longer he’s silent, the more uncomfortable the other man gets. He stands up, the book tumbling off his lap and thudding to the floor. In six steps he’s in front of Sherlock, who is growing more perplexed by the minute. Short arms wrap around long ones.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

 

***

Far away, on the other side of the city, two men are locked in a similar embrace. Well, ‘similar’ is a word Mycroft would use quite loosely. He is looking down his long nose, through reading spectacles perched right on the edge, reading a copy of _“The Who’s Who of British Beheadings”_. However, the detective inspector pillowing his head in his lap has other ideas.

“Come now, Gregory. All civilised people have designated reading hours in the evening,” he explains.

“Mmmphf,” comes Lestrade’s muffled reply, rolling over so that he’s looking up at Mycroft. “But you smell sooo good.”

Mycroft’s lips quirk upwards in a small smile. “It isn’t me. Must be that bouquet of magnolias on the table.”

“It’s you,” Lestrade says, stretching out along the sofa.

Mycroft takes off his glasses, admitting defeat. He runs a hand absentmindedly through Lestrade’s hair, a sign of how familiar the two have become. Months ago, Mycroft wouldn’t have tried something so strangely intimate, wouldn’t have made a move so uncalculated. But he finds himself at ease right now, and doesn’t protest when Lestrade rolls off the sofa and groans to a stand, pulling him up with him.

“I’m getting too old for this whole dating thing,” he laughs, as Mycroft brushes imaginary dust from the hem of Lestrade’s shirt. And then gingerly fingers the buttons of his sleeve.

Lestrade runs his hands up Mycroft’s arms, coming to a stop atop his shoulders. “Missed a spot,” he says into Mycroft’s neck, thumbing over a barely-there patch of stubble along his jawline.

“I don’t think I missed anything,” Mycroft replies, tipping Lestrade’s chin up and catching his mouth in a kiss.

Neither man notices the pale yellow half-moon hanging heavy in the sky. Nor the sudden glare of Mycroft’s phone as he receives a text.

_Thanks. - SH_

 

***

In the moonlight of Baker Street, a woman pulls a nondescript journal from her handbag, flips through the pages, and clicks on a pen.

 **_CASE FILE:_ ** _Operation Mystrade_

 **_CODENAME:_ ** _The Sherlock Babysitter’s Club_

 **_MISSION:_ ** _To promote the sustainability of Mystrade as a dyadic unit under the ruse of club to discuss involved party’s younger brother. To use said club as engine to facilitate said dyad._

She smiles the smile of a woman who is ensuring the stability of all of England as she fills in the next line.

 **_ST_ _ATUS:_ ** _Complete._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: All the book titles mentioned in this chapter are actual, published books. I do hope John has a copy of the one he was reading!  
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read, leave kudos, or review. My tumblr is thetunacorn.tumblr.com if you’d like to say hi or make a request! x


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